


All I Want for Christmas

by nautilicious



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, M/M, No Shame Ficathon, Pre-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:46:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilicious/pseuds/nautilicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock bought John something for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want for Christmas

“You got me a gift,” John says, wincing inwardly at how incredulous he sounds. No chance that Sherlock hasn’t noticed.

Sherlock huffs out his breath. “You needn’t sound so shocked.” 

John sighs. He’s already put Sherlock on the defensive with his surprise at the gift; he doesn’t want to make it worse. He considers and then rejects saying anything like, _I fear what you think an appropriate gift might be_ , or _you don’t give gifts_ , or the jumbled tangle of _does this mean something, then, do_ I _mean something more than being your only friend, not that I need to be more than your friend — I’m honored, really; it’s fine; it’s all fine_? He settles on, “it’s just that we’ve never exchanged gifts before,” and hopes that explains it. 

“I suppose not,” Sherlock says, “but I felt festive.” 

John can’t help dropping his jaw a bit at that comment, and Sherlock scowls at him. “I am not completely without human impulses,” he says, throwing himself onto the couch. “Just open it.”

The wrapping paper is dark blue and as understated as John would have imagined, had he ever imagined he would receive a gift from Sherlock. A gunmetal grey ribbon winds around it, sleek and flat with no frills or curls. John resists the urge to tear into it — the paper looks expensive — and begins to pick at the tape with his fingers. Sherlock hands him a knife that John didn’t see him retrieve, the length of the blade a bit overkill for the task of opening a present. The knife is sharp and the paper parts easily to reveal the kind of box that usually holds clothing, but he doesn't dare to speculate on what he’ll find inside. He lifts the lid.

John likes jumpers. He likes to be warm and comfortable. He knows that his taste in woolens couldn’t be called _dashing_ but he likes to believe that they make him look handsome and approachable. He knows Sherlock’s opinion on his style but also thinks that he’d look ridiculous in the clothes Sherlock swans around in, so he doesn’t give Sherlock’s opinion much weight. 

He feels his eyebrows raise up to his hairline as he stares at the most horrific jumper he’s ever seen.

It’s got an argyle pattern on the yoke in yellow, red and lime green on navy. The argyle triangles turn into dots halfway down, as though the colors rain down the front of the jumper, and the background reverses to red with dots of yellow, blue, and lime green against it. It’s in his size — not always easy to find, since most men have more height and bulk than he — so he knew it took Sherlock some effort.

“Ah,” John says. “Thank you, Sherlock. I’m, um, truly surprised.” He fidgets with the paper a bit. “I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything. There’s a few days before Christmas, if you’d like…?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t need you to get me anything. Put it on.”

John tries not to wince. He’d rather burn it, but he doesn’t want to hurt Sherlock’s feelings. He tries not to focus on how his own feelings are a bit hurt, if this is what Sherlock thinks John likes. He takes a breath. It won’t be terrible to just put the damned thing on for a while. He nods, then strips off his jumper (oatmeal-colored, his current favorite), and pulls the monstrosity on over his shirt. 

Sherlock’s eyes go crinkly at the corners, and John feels a sudden surge of relief. 

“Oh, John,” Sherlock says, “I know that when it comes to jumpers you have poor taste and no shame about it, but this is a bit much even for you.” 

John can see Sherlock fighting not to smile, and he feels relieved. It was a joke after all. “You mad bastard.”

Sherlock leaps to his feet, a grin breaking out on his face. “I can’t believe you put it on,” he crows, and John rolls his eyes at the gleefulness in his tone. He’s about to admit that Sherlock pulled one over on him, ha ha, when Sherlock says, “You really do trust me.”

John narrows his eyes at him. “Because our history of violence and mischief haven’t proved that point to you by now? It requires humiliation by jumper?” He feels a churning in his gut, suddenly reminded of Baskerville. He doesn’t know what new manipulation Sherlock has devised but he doesn’t want to play. He grasps the hem of the jumper but before he can remove it Sherlock steps forward and grasps his wrist. The smile slips from Sherlock’s face.

“No, John, I know. I know you trust me, and I value it immensely.” He steps closer, their bodies nearly touching. “I need for you to trust me now,” he says, and his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip.

John stares at Sherlock’s mouth. He’s never seen Sherlock wet his lips like that. It’s John’s mannerism on Sherlock’s face, and John feels his own tongue flick across his mouth in echo. Sherlock stands close, too close, and John doesn’t know what to do. He’s thought about kissing Sherlock; how could he not? Probably everyone, when faced with Sherlock’s fey, dazzling charisma, wonders about how his full lips would taste or how his eyes might darken with passion. Sherlock often stands too close, and John often wonders, but never once did he think he should act. Until now, when the sheer chemistry crackling between their bodies feels new and dangerous. Suddenly John _yearns_ , the desire to crush Sherlock’s mouth with his own almost overpowering.

“Trust me,” Sherlock says again, and then pulls John’s arms behind his back, grinding John’s wrists together in one hand while his other hand suddenly holds the knife. John stiffens, starts to pull away — Sherlock’s grip is firm but easily broken — saying, “What—“ when Sherlock leans forward. His breath against John’s ear sends shivers down his spine.  

Sherlock whispers, his voice a decadent rumble, “You asked what I wanted for Christmas.” He pauses, then enunciates each word clearly: “I want to cut that jumper off of you.”

John swallows, feels his trousers tighten. “Tricked me into getting a present for you after all, I see.”

Sherlock raises his head, bringing his mouth a breath away from John’s. “Why, thank you, John. It’s just what I wanted.”


End file.
